


Calculations

by carefully_careless



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: After The Abominable Bride, I'm Bad At Tagging, Miss Me?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 06:32:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11075997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carefully_careless/pseuds/carefully_careless
Summary: Sherlock and John set out on another search for a murderer, this time with a few odd connections and familiar faces.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is already a thing that I published on Fanfiction.net, but decided to have it here too. Enjoy.

Sherlock sighs, leaning his head back and letting his dark curls splay across the edge of his chair. "I'm-,"  
  
"Bored. Yes, I know. What do I have to do with anything?" John glances up from his laptop to his best friend, and then to the gun laying on the table. He reaches out, sliding it closer to himself. Sherlock purses his lips, a crease forming between his eyebrows.  
  
"Entertain me, John."  
  
John just scoffs, not looking up from his typing. "Last time I checked, I wasn't a dancing monkey. Go analyze the wall or something." Sherlock's frown deepens and he presses his calves into the chair, resting his elbows on his knees.  
  
"It's been a whole week since the last case! Why can't someone just go ahead and-,"  
  
"Die?" John's hands freeze over the keyboard and Sherlock stays silent, not wanting to admit that that is, indeed, what he was going to say. John closes his laptop with a heavy sigh and gazes out of the window into the unusually sunny London weather. "Look, Sherlock, I'm positive that Greg will call you soon with some new case that you’ll solve in a matter of hours, okay?" Sherlock lifts his head, an eyebrow raised high.  
  
"Greg?"  
  
"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock! Lestrade!" John drags his hand down his annoyed face. Sherlock only nods, though looking severely unconvinced. God, if I weren't here so often, he would have at least 10 more holes in the wall, John thinks to himself.  
  
Sherlock's ringtone pierces the silence, making Sherlock's hand dive into his pocket. "Sherlock Holmes." Though the words are said calmly, John can hear the anticipation in his voice. A long pause on Sherlock's side makes him smile wide. "Brilliant. Perfect. Wonderful. We'll be there soon." Not giving John a chance to grab anything, Sherlock yanks his long, dark coat and shrugs it on, then wrapping the knit blue scarf around his pale, slender neck.  
  
John clumsily pushes himself out of the cushioned chair and is thankful that he has left his jacket on. He breaks into an awkward jog to the door, locking and closing it before taking on the stairs. Sherlock waits impatiently, leaning against the slightly worn wallpaper. He practically shakes with the excitement of another case. John rounds the corner and Sherlock makes haste in opening the door and darting into the chilly air. Even though it was the sunniest day London had had in weeks, the hopes of having a nice, warm temperature was almost bitterly amusing.  
  
"Hurry up, John!" Sherlock calls, finally succeeding at getting a cab. The pair piles in the back and Sherlock gives the driver an address. John doesn't quite catch the exact location, but guesses that it's somewhere around Piccadilly. The cabbie nods and swings into the loose traffic. The silence is comfortable, each busying themselves with their own thoughts. Sherlock trying to decide what the murder will be, and John's mind replaying the lyrics of that one commercial that was played 7 times in 20 minutes on the telly.  
  
Moments later, the cab pulls up at a taped-off scene, allowing the two men to step out. They walk up and an officer lifts up the tape, letting the two duck under and continue walking to a small apartment building surrounded by police cars and people. Radio chatter and terse conversation fill the air. Lestrade falls in step with the two and Donovan follows. "Hello, John. Freak." Her voice hardens at the last word and John presses his lips together and nods to the woman.  
  
"Sally." The word is said as a simple greeting, a fairly cool-natured one at that.  
  
"What do we have?" Sherlock's voice is directed towards Lestrade, eyes already analyzing the interior of the apartment. The foyer is painted a pleasant blue, a gold mirror hanging on the wall. The group enters a sitting room, which has a long, white couch and brown recliner facing a fireplace. The wallpaper is a burnt yellow hue, giving the space a homey feeling. A bookcase is pressed against the wall, a variety of published works from J.K Rowling to Lemony Snicket taking up the shelves.  
  
"Just through here." Lestrade points to a white wooden door. Sherlock pushes it open and walks over to the dead body on the bed. "Suzanne Hendricks. 29 years old, a math teacher at Willington Primary School. She was found by her concerned cousin at 11 am, who heard that she didn't show up to the school."  
  
Sherlock nods, rubbing his thumb on the cream colored dress the corpse wore. "Obviously, she was planning on going to work, having gotten dressed. That means that our intruder got in earlier in the morning, right before she was about to leave. Keys were on the floor in the foyer, kicked into a corner, so that means she was on the way out but was stopped and carried to her room. So, the killer takes her here and there was a tussle, given by the dirty scuff marks on the carpet and the split lip on the girl. John? Your turn."  
  
John looks up at Sherlock. "Huh? Oh." He bends down and examines the body. "The death looks like it took place around 7:30 in the morning. Looking at the bruises on her wrists, she was probably bound by them. The bruising is only slight, though, so I'm thinking maybe once they were bound, she fought for a bit before either giving up or dying. No wound, other than a few scratches from the fight and I can't see any marks where she was strangled, so most definitely drugs."  
  
Satisfied with the examination, John stands straight. Sherlock nods and holds the hand of Suzanne, inspecting the skin. "The killer obviously wanted her to die quickly. This isn't a vengeance kill. That would have been much more painful and bloody so she had something they wanted very badly and simply needed her gone. Having gotten it, they took the bindings off and left quickly. Right here is an imprint of a work boot, size 9. This indicates that our killer is a man that doesn't work for any government or office building." He pauses and narrows his eyes. "Look here. On the index finger, there's a stain from the metal of a ring. It looks like that of a silver metal. This looks rather fresh. The killer obviously took it off. The rest of the room is fairly intact, as intact as a single woman's room can be. No drawers hurriedly opened and the jewelry box is undisturbed, so the ring was what he was after. John, I want you to go and question the girl's colleagues. Lestrade, you have Molly run tests on what the drug was."  
  
John nods wordlessly and takes his leave, clapping Lestrade on the back. Lestrade turns and follows, going to relay what information he could to Donovan. Sherlock makes one more sweep of the room, making minor, last-minute deductions. _Dog lover. Rich family. Adopted. Stubbornly independent. Passion for literature. _The list goes on and finally, Sherlock turns, leaving the room. His form halts and he squints at a dresser pressed up against the window. A corner of blue plastic peeks out from behind an open book full of Edgar Allen Poe's most popular works. A frown tugs at the corner of Sherlock's lips as he bends down to identify the object. A calculator. A calculator with the number 5 on it, to be specific. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he then pulls out his mobile and takes a picture of the thing. The door swings open again and Sherlock quickly rises, pulling his scarf tighter around him and smoothing out his oversized coat. Donovan pops her head in, eyebrow raised.__  
  
"You done yet, Wonder Freak?"  
  
Sherlock ignores the ever-common insult and gives an innocent, tight-lipped smile. "Yes, quite." He brushes past the girl and walks to the street, trying to call a cab. A car pulls over and Sherlock jumps in.  
  
"Where to?" The voice of the man in the driver's seat is rough and deep, louder than he probably meant.  
  
"221B Baker Street." Sherlock settles into the leather seat, ignoring the unmistakable smell of liquor and cheap perfume.  
  
….  
  
Sherlock furrows his brow as he looks at the picture he had taken of the calculator. The object seemed too out of place. Satisfied with the decision that the killer had placed the calculator there, Sherlock continues with his thinking. Obviously, it was placed in a spot where only someone who was paying fierce attention could have seen it and even if they did, they could just deduce that the woman was a math teacher and that she needed it.  
  
Knocked out of his thoughts by a text alert, Sherlock picks up his mobile and looks at the screen.  
  
_On the way home ___  
  
_-JW ___  
  
It had been over two hours since John left the crime scene to question the co-workers of Suzanne Hendricks.  
  
_When is it ___  
  
_-SH ___  
  
The reply is almost immediate.  
  
_What do you mean? ___  
  
_-JW ___  
  
Sherlock scoffs at the ignorance of his friend.  
  
_The date. ___  
  
_-SH ___  
  
Sherlock waits, ready to enjoy his daily dose of "Shut up, I'm right."  
  
_Tuesday night ___  
  
_-JW ___  
  
_Jerk ___  
  
_-JW ___  
  
Chuckling, Sherlock sips his tea, rubbing one foot with the other, eyes transfixed on Suzanne Hendrick's file. After a few minutes of studying what classes she took in university, Sherlock hears the heavy thuds of John coming up the stairs. The door opens and John enters, going straight to the kitchen.  
  
"Is she a looker?" Sherlock looks over at his friend with a smirk.  
  
"Shut up." John opens the refrigerator, ignoring the jar of human toes from Sherlock's latest experiment. Seeing no food, he turns, opening his mouth to speak, before having Sherlock interrupt him.  
  
"My wallet is on the counter."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new body is found, along with the killing method.

"Another?" John's voice holds a hint of disappointment. He had just fixed himself some toast, extra honey, when Sherlock rushed in.  
  
"Yes, now come on." Sherlock grabs the bread and tosses it in the trash. John gives a yell of protest and Sherlock ignores him, popping his collar, causing John to give him a highly over-exaggerated roll of the eyes. John casts a longing look at the quickly discarded toast before sighing heavily and slipping on his coat.  
  
Once the two had gotten the attention of a cabbie and slipped in the semi-clean vehicle, John leans his elbow against the door of the car. "You do realize that normal people need to eat, right? We can't all run on psychopath-driven adrenaline."  
  
Sherlock simply casts an annoyed glance at the man. "I'm not-,"  
  
"Right, right. I forgot. A high-functioning sociopath in all your glory. My humble apologies," John spits sarcastically. Sherlock presses his lips together, thinking of at least a million things that he can say to the angry man, but decides against it. There is a high chance that he would leave the cab with a bloody nose and cleaning up blood can get quite tedious. The road that Lestrade had given him over the phone comes up and him and John exit the car, John's anger bubbling down to a slight annoyance.  
  
John takes a deep inhale of cool air. The overcast weather was back, a slight drizzle dusting the air. Sherlock smiles excitedly as Lestrade leads him to the murder scene. The crime was done in a curb store, just in the back, where the extra food is stored. John squints at the body, something about it giving him an unsettling feeling. The woman had thick, brown hair and an employee apron on. Her face looked rather young, though John couldn't pinpoint an age.  
  
"Her name is Harriet Browning."  
  
John freezes, blood running cold. Harriet.  
  
Lestrade frowns, continuing. "She worked here on the weekdays from 9 in the morning to 7 at night. Her family lives in America. Her flat is just south of Baker Street." Lestrade stops and looks at John, ready for him to do his doctor thing.  
  
John nods and runs a gloved hand over a bit of exposed skin on the shoulder. "By the skin, it looks like she was murdered some 14 hours ago. That's…6:30 in the afternoon. 30 minutes before she would get off of work. Okay, looking at her wrist, she was bound, but, just like Suzanne, didn't fight too hard." John presses his thumb into the fleshy parts of the girl's neck, checking for any hard bruising or indications of strangling. "Other than that, there are no physical injuries. Drugs." He turns and sees Sherlock mumbling, before raising his voice so that the two before him, excluding the corpse, could hear his deductions.  
  
"She wasn't leaving like the other victim. I noticed that the spicy chips were nearly gone and that would explain why she's back here. At the front, it seems undisturbed, so it looks like the killer was someone who was supposed to be back here. As for the girl, she just got out of university, but couldn't find a job fit for a sustaining career, but with her family living in America and them having such a bad relationship, she couldn't live with them. But Sherlock, how do you know she had family issues?" Sherlock turns, doing an impersonation of John. "If the relationship was healthy, the family would have offered home back in America, where she could have a good paying job. Having the kind of relationship they have, she refused and stayed in London, settling for a job at a curb store. They tried to bribe her, sending a gold watch," Sherlock observes, fingers brushing the decoration on her wrist. "She declined, but kept the watch, putting it on daily as to look more desirable to the men that came to the store. Oh, and she was getting over a breakup, the boyfriend had cheated on her. Just have a look at the other employees outside. They all wear T-shirts, while Harriet insists on showing off her neck and as much of the chest as allowed…this indicates that she wants to drag attention from other women so that men don't look at others instead of her. Lestrade, was there anything found on the body?" Sherlock straightens, cocking his head at the older man. Lestrade pushes his hand into his pocket.  
  
"No. Nothing but this." He pulls out an object and Sherlock's eyebrows raise. A calculator, identical to the one he had seen in Suzanne's room. The number, though, is different. A "9" is the only thing showing. Now, Sherlock is certain that the calculators mean something. He whips out his mobile and takes a quick picture. He feels a blossom of excitement in his chest, a feeling he only got during a case.  
  
"Where was it?" Sherlock presses his mobile back into the depths of his pocket and awaits the answer.  
  
"It was hanging out of the pocket. She could have just been using it for stocking purposes." Lestrade pulls his arm back and shares a glance with John, who stares at the curly-haired man before him with an eyebrow raised. Sherlock just smirks, a cocky "I know something you don't know" vibe to it.   
  
"No, no. You are quite stupid to be the Detective Inspector, might I say. That's just what the killer wants you simple-minded creatures to think! These numbers mean something." Sherlock stops, pressing his hands together in a prayer stance at the bottom of his lip. Lestrade frowns, not understanding the seemingly obvious reason of why the object held so much importance. Sherlock comes back to the real world and shoots his head to the door. "Lestrade, I want your people to check for prints. John, come with me to interview the co-workers." The man leaves the room, leaving John in the dust. Lestrade looks at the blonde man, lips pressed together.  
  
"Make sure that he doesn't get into any trouble, please."  
  
John just nods, eyes watching Sherlock wait for him on the street. "Always."  
  
Lestrade sighs, watching the man leave, running a trembling hand through his graying hairs.  
  
John joins Sherlock, just in time to jump into a cab. He presses his head into the back of the seat and Sherlock leans forward, eyes glaring into the carpet floor. "Those calculators." John hums in acknowledgment, eyes flicking over to the man at his side. Sherlock presses his hands into his forehead, whispering random words. Soon, he would slide into his mind palace. When his hands slide down his face, John chuckles, ready to do what he always did.  
  
"Hey, Sherlock?"  
  
Sherlock doesn't move, just flinches slightly. Soon, he opens his mouth. "Yes?"  
  
"Do you have romantic feelings for Molly Hooper?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
John snickers, turning his smile towards the window.  
  
"Hey, Sherlock?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
John smirks. "Do you meet with Anderson in secret every Thursday to get coffee?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Knew it," John says with amusement. Slightly disappointed that Baker Street was nearing, he goes in for one more. "Hey, Sherlock?"  
  
"Yes?" John can swear he sees a small twitch at the corner of his friend's mouth.  
  
"What is your favorite word?" John waits for the expected answer.  
  
"Idiosyncratic. Or perhaps sesquipedalian, though I suppose you can see the irony in that one, right?" In the stunned silence that follows, Sherlock full on smirks. "Not in my mind palace, yet. Just thinking. That's for later."  
  
John huffs. "Whatever."  
  
…  
  
"Yes, she never did anything too risky. Not any enemies…not too many friends, either." Sasha Prestwood sits at a small table, telling the two rather attractive men all that she knew about Harriet Browning. "She was getting over a nasty breakup, you see." The blonde man on the right looks to the taller of the two, a shocked look on his face. The man gives him a smug look and turns his brilliant blue eyes back to Sasha.  
  
"Do you know who the boyfriend was?"  
  
Sasha brushes a curly black strand of hair behind her ear, frowning slightly. "No, sorry. Mr. Holmes, was it?" At the nod that comes after, Sasha focuses harder. "He did come in once or twice every so often, but it wasn't like she was talking about him all the time. Wait! Wait. I do believe there was a name. Only a first one, unfortunately, but a name nevertheless. David, I think."  
  
The shorter man rises and shakes her hand. "Thank you, Miss Prestwood."  
  
Sasha nods, turning to the curly-haired man to shake his. "Thank you, Dr. Watson…Mr. Holmes." The two men nod and take their leave, making it so that only Sasha sits in the small break room.  
  
…  
  
Sherlock and John walk quickly through the streets of London, both going to different places. "The restaurant is right up here. I'll make it as soon as I can. Text me if you go somewhere else," John huffs, breathing heavily. Sherlock only nods, sweeping his eyes over the restaurant and giving John a knowing smirk. John cuts left, opening the door and disappearing as Sherlock continues on to the morgue. He swings the door open, running into Molly. He grabs her by the shoulders and steers her in the opposite direction. She sighs in defeat and leads him to a petri dish under a microscope.  
  
"Fentanyl," the two say in unison, making Molly giggle. Sherlock nods.  
  
"A lethal dose isn't much at all and wouldn't take very long to kill, so of course it wouldn't be enough time for serious bruising, of course. Who would have access to fentanyl, though? Enough to kill two people…maybe more, unless…" No. Not him. Even though all the arrows pointed to him, Sherlock wasn't going to believe it. Jim Moriarty is dead. Gone. No matter how many times he said it to himself, though, it sounded more and more like a question.  
  
The door abruptly opens, John walking in looking rather dejected.  
  
"You got stood up," Sherlock says, trying in vain to keep the laugh out of his voice.  
  
"Yes. I mean no. I might have confused her with the restaurant names." John crosses his arms in defense and Molly slaps her forehead, trying not to smile.  
  
"Take it from one, John, when a girl gets invited to dine with a man, she remembers the restaurant if she wants to go."  
  
John frowns, leaning against the counter like a pouting child.  
  
"Besides," Sherlock starts, "even I know not to invite a girl to a restaurant called Jimmy's Macaroni Plaza on a first date."


	3. Chapter 3

John and Sherlock stand in front of a large door, waiting for the go-ahead to step in. John shifts his weight to his good leg and crosses his arms, biting into the side of his lip. Sherlock casts a glance to the side and sighs, remembering the deductions of the previous murder victim.  
  
_Sherlock grins as he walks onto the scene. After all, more murders mean more evidence. After voicing the thought to John, though, Sherlock gets a rather stern reminding that thinking like that wasn't "healthy" or something. The two are led by Lestrade to a small washroom with a body slumped over the side of a tub. The room seems to have taken a full bleach in the near past. Everything in it is white, much contrast to the darker decorations of the rest of the house. ___  
  
_"Evelynn Rose, 24 years old. She lived here with her little sister, Jeslyn Rose." Lestrade's voice is laced with something Sherlock doesn't understand, though John can interpret perfectly. Definitely a first on both parts. The body looks almost identical to Sally Donovan. Light brown skin pops against the sterile white tiles, curly black hair splayed across the floor. John steps forward. Even though he knows for a sure fact that drugs killed the girl, given by the pattern of the killing method, he examines the skin to give a time of date. ___  
  
_"Looks as though she was killed around noontime. Bruised wrists and drugs, just like the rest." The man's voice is cut off by Sherlock pushing him out of the way to give his own spiel. ___  
  
_"Yes, of course. We're looking at a noon murder, as John said. There's a slight bit of a mustard stain on the side of the left thumb. In the kitchen, the bag holding the bread was without the first two slices, so Evelynn makes a sandwich, having not had breakfast. She comes here to wash her hands and gets stopped and killed. She was adopted and brought here to England when she was young. Parents died two years ago, car crash." Sherlock takes a death breath, pulling open a drawer and running through the contents. "She was going for a degree in psychology, and wasn't doing so well." He stops, running through the rest in his head. Depression, anxiety, favorite actor being Chris Pratt, past smoker._  
  
_He turns to the men before him and asks the one question on his mind solely with his eyes. Lestrade sighs and pulls out the requested object. Yet another calculator. This one, in particular, holds the number 10. Sherlock nods, unadmitted confusion tugging at his brain. He snaps a picture and turns away, thinking. John's voice comes from behind, directed to Lestrade. ___  
  
_"So, did you get any prints?" ___  
  
_John cringes at his attempt at small talk but gets a sure answer. ___  
  
_"No. At least the guy was smart. Wore gloves." ___  
  
_Sherlock whirls around, eyes wide. "Can we speak with the sister?" ___  
  
Sherlock starts as the door opens, stepping aside to let Donovan and Anderson out. Donovan holds a very interesting look on her face. Sherlock smirks and begins to head in, but is caught by John's stiff arm. "Sherlock, just remember what we talked about. She's only fourteen. Go easy and don't be…" John trails off, looking for an appropriate word. The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirks up.  
  
"Myself?"  
  
John nods and Sherlock chuckles, pushing past the other man's iron grip and opening the door. The two walk into the interrogation room to see a girl that stays true to her age. Sherlock looks at her build and decides that she could be about a half of a head taller than John when standing. Her arms are toned, but not too muscular. Obviously, she played some sort of sport. The girl wears a blue sweater over a yellow shirt, hanging just below the top of her skinny jeans. Sherlock nods to himself, making small deductions. His eyes travel to her face. Her skin is pale, almost ghostly.  
  
Well, that proves Evelynn was adopted.  
  
Sherlock continues looking. Blonde hair frames her cheeks and sweeps across her forehead, falling into icy blue eyes. She holds a numb, almost annoyed expression. She opens her mouth.  
  
"Good God. More of…them?" Her voice is smooth, much older sounding than the actual age of it.  
  
Sherlock smiles warmly, or as warmly as he could manage. "Not necessarily." Relief floods the girl's eyes.  
  
"Thank you. They're all so…idiotic. That last dude asked me five times if Evelynn was actually a girl and STILL told his lover to check."  
  
Sherlock chuckles, nodding in agreeance. "Yes, they all seem to have the mental capacity of a squirrel." The girl takes on an offended expression.  
  
"Sir, that is an insult to squirrels."  
  
The two laugh and John looks on with wide eyes. Is that Sherlock Holmes…actually bonding with someone? Instead of voicing the thought, another comes. "Hey, what did you mean by 'told his lover'?"  
  
Sherlock and the girl turn, a similar expression on both faces. "Wasn't it obvious?" The girl seems genuinely confused as to why the man before her couldn't comprehend the seemingly obvious relationship between Donovan and Anderson. "His breath hitched every time he looked at her and his pupils dilated to the point where even I noticed. And if you even saw the way he looked at her-,"  
  
"Yeah, yeah. Okay, I get it. Sherlock? Didn't you have some questions?" John leans back and watches Sherlock nod, before reaching his hand out for the girl to shake.  
  
"Sherlock Holmes. This is my friend, Dr. John Watson." The girl turns to John and takes his hand, giving a firm shake. The skin is cold and dry, but soft.  
  
"Jeslyn Rose, but I prefer Jes." She smiles and clears her throat, reaching up absentmindedly, playing with a silver necklace. A small circle hangs at her collarbone, E &J engraved on the surface.  
  
"Yes. So, I'm going to ask a few questions. I need you to answer them to the best of your ability, okay?" Sherlock leans forward, pressing his elbows onto the cold surface of the table. His voice holds the tone of an adult speaking to a three-year-old. Jes leans forward as well, mocking his expression and answers in the same way.  
  
"Yes."  
  
John snorts and quickly covers his mouth with the sleeve of his newest jumper. Jes shoots him an amused look, before leaning back and nodding to Sherlock.  
  
"Okay, then. What was Evelynn like?" Sherlock taps his fingers on the table swiftly, excited to hear an answer.  
  
"Well," Jes starts, "She was very diligent with her work. She wasn't…social. She never came home with a study-buddy or a boyfriend, nobody at all. Her whole life was school, and then me. Every morning she would leave a note saying she loved me." Sherlock lifts an eyebrow. "Sentiment is only a chemical defect found on the losing side."  
  
Jes smiles, cracking her knuckles. "Well, that couldn't have sounded more rehearsed. I feel sorry." Sherlock ignores the comment.  
  
"Has she been acting odd lately?"  
  
"Nothing out of the ordinary. Every night she rushed in, made sure I ate, whether it was takeaway or our neighbor's cooking, and went to her room. Every hour, I would go in and check on her. Right before our parents died, they took me in a room and told me that I needed to stay with Evelynn. I didn't know what it meant. About a year after we moved here, I was cleaning up her room and found depression pills. I didn't tell her, but every month, I would go to her pharmacist to get her bottle refilled. Sometimes, late at night, I would hear her-," Her voice cracks and she doesn't finish. A single tear rolls down her face and she quickly wipes it away. "I'm sorry. I look so weak." A dry laugh escapes her lips and John frowns, leaning in.  
  
"Crying doesn't make you weak, it makes you human."  
  
Jes only nods, a grateful smile gracing her lips. Sherlock's voice interrupts the two. "Did she pick you up from school any?" Jes shakes her head.  
  
"I walked home."  
  
Sherlock purses his lips and shakes his head. "That's really dangerous." Jes only shrugs. "Okay, well, I'll go get Lestrade. Stay here, John." Sherlock stands and exits, leaving the two.  
  
Silence follows suit and Jes finally breaks it. "What?" John jumps out of a daze and cocks his head. Jes laughs, running a hand through her hair. "You were looking at me like I was the first question on an Algebra exam. Trust me, I know what it looks like."  
  
John smiles and shakes his head incredulously. "It's just…he's never like that."  
  
"Oh? And what is he usually like?"  
  
John thinks and takes a deep breath. "He is the most annoying, cold-hearted, condescending a-," John stops and rubs the back of his head, muttering apologies.  
  
"I went to a public school. You can't surprise me with anything."  
  
John tilts his head forwards, causing shadows to cover his face. Jes blinks in the sterile light of the room and studies the tile on the floor, when John lets out a string of profanities, all pertaining to Sherlock's demeanor. Jes laughs, a light noise that reminds John of his sister in the years before their falling-out. She nods and runs a finger up and down her neck. "Well, I'll just take your word for it, Dr. Watson."  
  
"John."  
  
Jes looks up, confusion filling her eyes. "Hm?"  
  
"You can call me John."  
  
Jes nods, suddenly feeling awkward. Thankfully, Sherlock shoves the door open and walks over, with Donovan, Lestrade, and Anderson in close pursuit. Jes squints at Sherlock, observing.  
  
He walks with so much purpose, like any second wasted is fatal and he must walk terribly fast. Rather handsome, I must admit. His lips are naturally turned down, no laugh lines, so maybe he is the person John described. Oh, God, his lips. So perfectly defined and pale and SNAP OUT OF IT, JES. GET YOUR HORMONES IN FREAKING CHECK. These two are probably 15 years older than you. But, hey, just because the ring is too expensive to buy doesn't mean I can't look at it, admire it- GOD, JES.  
  
"-and all we need to work out now is her housing." Jes looks up to see the group speaking, Lestrade addressing Sherlock.  
  
"She can come with us."  
  
"Say what?" The comment is out of Jes's mouth before she can stop it, though it goes quite unnoticed.  
  
"Sherlock, you can't just take a teenager home. Besides, it's too dangerous." Lestrade's voice is harsh, making Jes shiver.  
  
"It's dangerous? Sticking her in some hotel seems worse. Or, of course, you could have her room with Anderson. Sleep would be an issue, though. How could one sleep with Anderson and Donovan having passionate 'I hate Sherlock Holmes, too' kissing sessions." Donovan gasps and raises her hand to slap Sherlock before he catches her hand. "Oh, shut it, Sally. We all knew it."  
  
"Um," Jes raises her hand. "Do I get a say in this?"  
  
Sherlock turns and smiles. "Not really, but your opinion would be fun to hear."  
  
"Well," Jes says, ignoring the insult, "if Anderson is the…lovely gentleman I had the pleasure of speaking with earlier, then I can confirm that I would rather break my own pinky than room with him."  
Sherlock smirks and turns back to the group. Anderson has his eyes on Jes, an offended look on his face. "See, Gavin, she would rather go with me. Meet me in St. Bart's morgue tomorrow at nine, please. Come." He pushes past Donovan and exits the room. John sighs and stands, offering his hand to Jes. She accepts it and uses it as help to stand up. Unsure of what to do other than follow John with a dumb expression, Jes sticks her hands into her pockets and takes light steps.  
  
Once in a cab, John leans forward, giving the driver an address. Jes plays the events of the past few minutes in her head before shaking her head. What the actual heck just happened.  
  
While Jes, stuck in her mind, leans against the door to watch the night sky. Panic strikes in her heart and she jumps but doesn't remember why she would be so alarmed.  
  
John, beside her, makes sure that she can't hear him before looking at Sherlock. "What the bloody he-,"  
  
"Oh, John. It's only for a short time. It's not like we're adopting her or anything. Besides, she seems to have some wits, might prove useful in the case."  
  
"Case? You plan on dragging her into this?" John looks the man wide-eyed and shakes his head.  
  
"John, you idiot, she's already in this. Neck deep, in fact."  
  
John looks over his shoulder to look at Jes, who sits staring out of the window. "What if we get her hurt, Sherlock?" No answer comes.  
  
At around his moment, Jes remembers why she was so panicky. Her mother's voice fills her ears.  
  
"Remember, Jessie, never go off with strangers. Bad things will happen."


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock throws open the door and marches right into the sitting room. The space is lightly illuminated, giving his slender face more shadows than usual. John follows, turning just a bit to look back at the shocked girl. He takes notice of her apprehension and the way she looks at the bullet holes riddling the wall. He smiles, nodding to the room before him.  
  
"Come on! I don't bite."  
  
Jes gives an apologetic grin and steps in, the sarcastic manner from earlier leaving faster than a mutated cheetah. She glances from left to right, eyes lifting up from the skull on the mantle to the smiley face on the wall. Two chairs take up the center of the room, reminding Jes of an elderly couple's rocking chairs. Finally, they fall on Sherlock, who stands with his hands clasped behind his back severely, staring at the wallpaper. She lets out a weak laugh, remembering what John had just said. 'I don't bite.' Not, 'We don't bite.'  
  
"Right, so-um-would you like a tour?" John claps his hands at the front of his chest, trying desperately to exterminate the awkward silence. Jes appreciates the gesture and nods thankfully. "Well, then." John nods towards what looks to Jes like a kitchen. The two walk in and Jes takes immediate notice of the different science instruments.  
  
I could name all of these, she thinks with a large amount of pride.  
  
Her eyes bounce from vial to vial and rest on…  
  
Are those…eyeballs? "Um-,"  
  
"Ignorance is bliss," John says, cutting her off and Jes nods quickly.  
  
"I beg to differ!" An angry voice comes from the sitting room and John sighs, walking on to a small hallway.  
  
"This is the restroom." John shoves the first door open, revealing a sink, toilet, and shower. The wallpaper is a black and white design, flowers covering just about every square inch.  
  
Well, this is definitely rented by a woman.  
  
"This will be where you sleep," John says quietly, entering another room. A large bed in the middle of the room is covered in a brown coverlet and two simple pillows head it. To the right, a door to a closet is slightly open, where Jes can see a collection of jumpers and jeans. Jes turns quickly, realization striking her.  
  
"Where will you sleep?"  
  
John brushes a hair off of his forehead and answers truthfully. "The couch. So anyway-,"  
  
"The couch? No. I can sleep there. This is your place, anyway." Jes crosses her arms, taking a defensive stance.  
  
"We were the ones who dragged you into this."  
  
"Correction," Jes points out, throwing a finger to the direction of the living room. "He dragged me into this. It's simply punishment for you to have your bed taken away."  
  
John nods, a 'fair point' look gracing his features. "Well, to be fair, I am, in part, responsible for him, so please."  
  
The two stand for a while, each determined to get their way. John smirks and closes the door, leaning against it and clearing his throat. A second of panic flashes in Jes, before she settles. The man, John, doesn't seem too threatening.  
  
"Fine," Jes says quickly, desperate to get the heck out of the room. John smiles triumphantly and turns the knob.  
  
"Would you like some tea?"  
  
Jes sighs at the thought of a nice, steaming hot cup and smiles, all past thoughts washed away. "Yes. In fact, tea would be freaking marvelous right about now."  
  
John pulls the door open all the way and slips out, Jes following soon after.  
  
The bathroom was right…here. She slips into the room and closes the door, pressing her back into it. My God, what have I gotten into? She turns to face the mirror and her eyes widen a fraction. Dark bags hang under her eyes and her slightly sunken in features look much more pronounced than usual. Her hair is deemed okay, given the circumstances. The long blonde locks are tumbling down, just as usual. Everything is fine, except for the rather pesky strand that just won't stay out of her eyes. She looks at it with a death glare and her hand flies to her wrist, searching for the black hair tie she always kept with her, and begins scooping her hair up.  
  
There, you little crap. Jes runs her fingers delicately over the ponytail at the middle of her head. It wasn't a big improvement, but she felt lighter, which was good. Not the best, but not the worst either.  
  
…  
  
John leans his hip against the counter, waiting for the tea. His eyes study the bathroom, thinking of the girl just behind it. She proves to be…interesting. He recalls the distraught look in her eyes when he closed the door. Odd. The small sound of running water makes him turn around. Obviously, she would think him a creep if she walked out of a bathroom with a middle-aged man watching her. She walks out, a timid air following her. John glances over his shoulder, watching her calculating, piercing, sea-colored gaze analyzing the kitchen. Well, that looks familiar.  
  
"I'll just be in here." Jes clears her throat and scurries to the sitting room, leaving John alone to tend to the tea.  
  
….  
  
Jes sighs, exiting the kitchen and Sherlock stops her, having just been heading to his room. She sidesteps and so does he, giving quite an awkward feel to the room.  
  
"So sorry, shall we dance?" Sherlock skirts past her, giving her a bit of alone time in the sitting room. She chuckles and shrugs, walking across the room and taking a seat at the couch. The cushions aren't too firm, but comfortable nonetheless. She slowly reaches into her shirt pocket, slipping out her phone and shooting a text to her close friend.  
  
Hey, Eda. -JR  
  
No response comes and Jes sighs, dropping the device into her lap. She then decides to challenge herself by counting all of the lamps in the room. She loses count at five when John steps in.  
"Sorry to interrupt. Do you take sugar?" He sounds hesitant to ask, for some reason. Jes smiles and nods.  
  
"Yes. Two, please."  
  
And just like that, he's gone.  
  
A few counting-filled moments follow.  
  
God, this is a whole lot of lamps for one room.  
  
John comes back in and hands Jes a small cup filled with the dark liquid. She eagerly takes a sip, reveling in the feeling of the smooth tea going down her throat.  
  
"Thank you," she says kindly, almost forgetting to show gratitude.  
  
"No problem. So, what did you do on the weekends. You know, when you weren't at school. Did Evelynn give you free range or keep you inside?" John immediately winces at his conversation starter, knowing the subject is still touchy. "Sorry, sorry."  
  
Jes gives him a miniscule smile and shakes her head. "No, it's quite alright. We didn't go to church, but she would take me to lunch every Sunday. On Saturday, I would usually stay indoors watching Forensic Files." Jes answers truthfully and stares at the wall, picturing the comfy afternoons she used to have. Tea in one hand and a book in the other, to read on commercials. The light of day would diminish and, eventually, die a fiery death. Too dramatic? Not at all. In the winter, Evelynn would come home an hour after night fell, giggling at the telly. Jes can almost hear her voice.  
  
'Jes, you watch that so much, you won't be too surprised when you see a real dead body.'  
  
Oh, how wrong she was.  
  
The moment the man who introduced himself as Greg showed her to the body of her sister, no amount of Forensic Files episodes could prepare her for that. There was no blood, nothing to indicate a painful death. Still, the dead, half-lidded eyes pierced her very essence, churning her insides. The specifics that Greg was telling her were tuned out, everything going numb. Tendrils of black snaked into her vision and she was sure that she would fall if she didn't get support.  
  
Oh, yes. So, so wrong.  
  
John's words knock her out of her reverie. "Interesting. I-I mean…sounds fun!" John's faked enthusiasm earns him an equally fake smile from Jes, who nods quickly.  
  
"I have a question, Dr. Watson." Jes waits a beat before realizing what she had done. John lifts an eyebrow and Jes quickly corrects herself. "John, sorry. So, um, I had to ask. Why do people hate Sherlock so much? I mean, sure, he seems like the kind of person to have absolutely no filter, but that really shouldn't matter, should it?"  
  
John sighs, tightening his grip on his own cup and casts his gaze to the wall. "Sherlock. Given that he speaks so much, it's kind of ironic that you can never figure him out. He's very cold, unattached. I think he does it on purpose, so that he doesn't have to do with things like loss or heartbreak. You could say that he has trust issues. Maybe not with other people…the man could take a single look at a random person and tell if they were a teller or an assassin. No, I think he doesn't trust himself to be able to shut his emotions down when the moment someone he loves is getting hurt, so he just lets himself stay away. In his little own way, I think he's one of the more compassionate, emotionally weak beings on this planet." John quickly presses the cup back against his lips, feeling the steam from the liquid hitting the skin of his upper lip.  
  
Jes slowly nods, eyes cast downwards. "What about you?" The words are said quietly, almost to the point where John has to strain to make out any sounds.  
  
"What is there to know?" John leans back, head cocked to the side at the girl's inquiry.  
  
"Lots, I suppose. Are you originally from London? Family? Have you ever had a pet lizard? Do you like checkers?" Jes gnaws on her lip and clears her throat. "Just…as examples." Her words trail off and she looks back up to John, who smiles gently.  
  
"Well, I have a sister. Her name is Harry. We were really close before our-,"John halts, searching for a word to describe the intricate situation that him and his sister share.  
  
"Fallout?" Jes provides a suggestion and John nods.  
  
"Yes. You know, I'm not very interesting. Tell me more about you, if you don't mind." John notices that the warm liquid had warmed her very essence. She seems less nervous, more amused. Even her thin facial features, originally giving the indication of undereating, are less noticeable.  
  
"I once had a cat," Jes offers, setting the cup down and fiddling with her fingers. "His name was Benedict."  
  
"What kind of a name is Benedict for a cat?" A cold voice from behind the two interrupt Jes and she squares her shoulders.  
  
"Evelynn named him," Jes spits, suddenly taking on a defensive attitude.  
  
"It's a wonderful name," John interjects, trying to ease the mood. Sherlock sighs and straightens his coat.  
  
"Whatever you say. John, come on. We have a lead." Sherlock runs a hand through his mussed curls.  
  
"W-Wait! What about Jes?" John staggers out of the chair and points to Jes, making her go wide-eyed.  
  
"Oh, have Mrs. Hudson keep her for now." Sherlock turns and flings the door open, heading out into the night. John turns, an apologetic smile gracing his features.  
  
"Sorry. We'll be back. Mrs. Hudson is really nice…I promise."  
  
Jes licks her lips quickly, a habit that had developed over the years. She lets John lead her down the narrow staircase and to a door. He knocks twice, waiting impatiently for it to open. The hinges creak slightly as it swings wide, showing an older lady in a purple dress. Her hair is the color of wet sand and the skin on her face holds a mixture of worry and laugh lines. Well, it's what you get when you live in the same building as Sherlock Holmes. Her thin, red lips open to speak.  
  
"Hello, dear. What's the matter?" Her voice is sweet. Jes guesses that this is the famous Mrs. Hudson. John smiles and explains the situation.  
  
"Sherlock has a lead. Could you watch her for a few hours, please?"  
  
"Yes, now go! Go!" Mrs. Hudson nods and shoos him out, eyes full of understanding. John nods and turns into Mr. Serious, running out of the building to follow Sherlock to wherever he went off to.  
  
"Come in, come in," Mrs. Hudson says quickly, ushering Jes inside the homey space. The walls are a light pink color, with a white floor and ceiling. Lamps dot the sitting room, almost having the same number as Sherlock and John's flat. Jes stands politely, waiting for a cue to sit. The lady gestures to a chair in front of a fireplace. "Sit." The word is gentle, but forceful…kind of like a grandmother making you eat. "Wait here. I'll make us some tea."  
  
"Oh, I already-," The words die on the girl's lips, seeing as though the lady had already disappeared into a kitchen. "Well, okay."  
  
Moments later, Mrs. Hudson walks back in with a tray of teacups and biscuits. Jes gratefully takes a cup and sips the tea, eyes widening in surprise. "How did you know I take sugar?"  
  
Mrs. Hudson winks. "I just know, darling. Now," she says, sitting in the chair opposite of Jes, "tell me about yourself."  
  
…


End file.
